


Be My New Prescription

by Takene_ne



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Canon-Typical Violence, Date Nights, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Humor, Future Fic, Getting Together, Jerome Valeska is Joker (DCU), M/M, [do not try to recreate at home!], but in much moderation :), by which i mean Jerome's ideas of dates ofc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27713594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Takene_ne/pseuds/Takene_ne
Summary: Bruce Wayne is back in town.OR: J’s absolutely fantabulous & foolproof guide to wooing your vigilantenemesiscrush with mayhem, general panic and powerful explosives!
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 52
Kudos: 105





	1. #1: take over their workplace

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimer applies. Title from Neon Trees – Everybody Talks  
> ______________________  
> LOOK WHO’S ALIVE! >.<  
> Well anyway, this fandom’s in desperate need of more fluff and funny shenanigans so that’s exactly what I’m bringing you! **Premise** is simple: Jerome didn't die, bridges didn't fall and Jeremiah’s in Arkham for now. Bruce left and came back and everybody’s fine and dandy. We’re starting like 4~ish years after what would’ve been One (Not So)Bad Day. I’ll probably add more details into the series description later (because this is. A Series. Of absolutely Monstrous proportions, at least by my standards :v) but that’s all that matters for now.  
> Enjoy! <3

It’s a sunny Wednesday morning when Bruce gets stuck giving a presentation to his board. The future projects he envisions for Wayne Enterprises are crucial to implement as fast as possible, and Bruce can’t wait to get all hands on deck. The company has been running without his direct input long enough, and now that he’s back in town and more than ever committed to making Gotham a better place, Bruce fully intends to use all means at his disposal to make sure his family’s resources are utilized efficiently.

His plan involves meeting with the board regularly — starting right now — and systematically weeding out any and all signs of corruption and shady dealings that come to his attention. But more importantly, Bruce is determined to prove that change _can_ be made when people with enough power are set on the right course.

Bruce has power.

Both financial and individual, and he _will_ use them, now that no legalities are holding him back.

Most of all, it just feels right, to finally be able to do something of real value here in Gotham, after years and years of traveling and training. Of course, those were valuable too, and Bruce would never go out at night to fight crime, nice and personal, if he didn't believe it makes change, too, but there is just something intrinsically satisfying about working the systems from the inside. And he can do both.

So Bruce is in the middle of explaining why focusing on clean energy is crucial in reducing Gotham’s air pollution when the first gunshots ring across the hall.

Ah.

Of course. He should’ve predicted _that_.

Ever since Bruce returned to Gotham, he kept his own presence carefully hidden. Successfully establishing Batman required absolutely _no connection_ to Bruce Wayne, and while he’s already met most of the prominent criminals as his new, shiny alter-ego, they still didn’t see _him_ , Bruce. And Bruce knew it was a matter of time before one of them got impatient enough to come kicking at this door — literally — to claim their favorite hostage anew.

Especially now, as Bruce imagines, when being an actual player in the game makes him a much more valuable bargaining card than when he was a child.

The only thing Bruce didn’t account for, but certainly _should have_ , apparently, is that it would be Jerome coming after him.

Because of course it is.

Bruce can hear that obnoxious, unmistakable laughter even before he can see him. Even before a bunch of Maniax, armed to the teeth, flood his conference room and take aim at every single one of his board members. Bruce has to fight the urge to shake his head disapprovingly. It’s a nice display of power, he’ll admit that, but from the resident clown menace he expected something… more. Something _classy_.

“Bruuuce Waaaayne~!”

Speak of the devil.

Jerome saunters into the room like he owns it, battle rifle casually swung over his shoulder like a very grotesque umbrella, shiny suit and eternal smile equally dazzling in the artificial lights. It’s all very on brand.

Bruce did see him before. Since he got back. It’s hard not to run into one of his ever-going schemes even if one doesn’t actively search for them — which Batman very much _does_ — but it’s not just the same.

Facing Jerome in Kevlar and a cowl, on a completely fresh slate and without history to weight them down is just _different_. Of course, there’s mocking and threats and violence — Jerome always gives back as good as he gets, that hasn’t changed — but the sort of playful attitude Bruce got so used to before he left is nowhere to be seen.

Because Jerome might’ve wanted to kill kid Bruce Wayne before, but after that memorable first time it was always a game. Batman, though? Ever since Batman single-handedly dismantled his mass-hypnosis plot at the very beginning of his tenure, as a blatant self-advertisement no less, Jerome wants to absolutely _destroy_ him.

There is nothing playful about that.

So maybe it is a bit _weird_ , but seeing Jerome in his office like that, just as deadly as in the field but with his frisky mirth intact, Bruce is just a little relieved. He can deal with homicidal tendencies and pure, unadulterated rage just as well, but for Bruce Wayne there will undoubtedly be a _show_. And that’s always easier to twist to his advantage.

Bruce will also never admit that he has missed this, the rush of adrenaline when faced with a threat as _himself_ , but he allows his _business face_ to break just enough for his lips to curl. Just a fraction.

Jerome doesn’t seem to be concerned by much, though, and already managed to drape himself on the chair directly opposite of Bruce: boots on the table and crookedly pleased smirk firmly in place, clearly waiting for a response.

Only he doesn’t get one.

Bruce blinks once and promptly ignores all of this nonsense, continuing with his presentation as if nothing out of ordinary ever happened. If Jerome wants something from him, he will have to take it himself. And Bruce does _not_ plan to yield easily.

Predictably, Jerome doesn’t appreciate being ignored. He doesn’t at all.

Good.

Bruce wouldn’t want to get boring this fast.

He moves on to talking about plans on redesigning Jeremiah’s batteries so that they’re safe to use without a threat of overloading, and how it could revolutionize living conditions for the poorest parts of the city. He brushes on the potential profits the world-wide distribution could produce to sway the opinion more in his favor when the glass wall behind him explodes in a rain of shards.

Bruce flinches. He’s grateful Jerome didn't shoot the laptop that’s much closer to him, even though he’s no longer smiling when Bruce lifts his gaze to meet Jerome’s across the room. Game on.

“Yes?” Bruce asks with as much listless politeness as he can muster. He’s certain that his board members must be much more shaken by all of this than he is, but given _who_ Bruce is and _who_ he tends to dance with on a regular basis, this won’t be the last incident of such kind in the foreseeable future.

Better for everyone to be prepared.

Jerome clicks his tongue and stares at him with unreadable intent for a short moment, before he seems to catch on on Bruce’s play. The smirk returns.

“Look at you, Brucie! All grown up!” he croons, shifting in his chair. There is an audible gasp from one of the women but Bruce ignores her. Thankfully, none of the Maniax move.

“Time tends to do that.” Bruce hikes his eyebrow. Alfred would be so proud.

Jerome’s eyes narrow.

“You know why I’m here.” It’s a threat. Or, as good as one; as good as anything Jerome ever says. Bruce cocks his head slightly to the side, trying to radiate as much tired confidence as humanly possible.

“No idea, actually.”

It’s enough.

Jerome inhales sharply, theatrics practiced and layered on thick, and presses one gloved hand to his chest in a dramatic gesture.

“Awww, all this time and you’re so cold to me. I’m wounded, darling. _Wounded!_ ” And he really does sound like it! Bruce kind of wants to chuckle. He doesn’t, though. He has to play this right if he wants Jerome to leave without too much damage (and death). But he shrugs, barely noticeable, and picks up his speech.

The idea that maybe Jerome also missed having his favorite volunteer, the perfect bait for his big, nefarious spectacles flickers in the back of Bruce’s mind but he dismisses it on the spot. He suspected that once he let Jerome grab his attention, he would _not_ back down again, but it’s just that — a performance. It used to be… typical, for him, when it came to Bruce. Before. Good to know not much has changed in his absence.

Only Jerome is not having it.

As soon as Bruce moves closer to his slides trying to push the meeting forward despite the odds, a loud bang echoes through the room, followed by an even louder scream.

Figures.

Jerome shot the woman sitting to Bruce’s left in the arm, but well. She’s alive, thank god.

It doesn’t matter, though. Bruce can already feel indignation raise its ugly head in his gut — a familiar feeling he hasn’t experienced with this much force since the last time he had faced Jerome as a civilian. It’s been some time.

He does want Jerome to play along with his diversion, but wasting innocent lives is never a worthy price. Bruce grits his teeth but doesn’t let himself visibly react otherwise.

“ _Jerome_ ,” he says warningly.

Jerome only examines his nails — or he would have, but he’s still wearing _gloves_ — and doesn’t look Bruce in the eye.

“You can’t ignore me, Bruce,” he says matter-of-factly, “or I’ll have all your little friends here killed.”

Oh, Bruce knows he would. In a heartbeat. But that’s not what he says at all.

“You won’t.” And there’s conviction there. Bruce played Jerome’s games before. He _knows_ Jerome; knows how he ticks. And Bruce is not afraid to use that knowledge to his advantage. “If you want my cooperation in whatever you’ve planned for _after_ kidnapping me, you won’t.”

And that finally does it, because Jerome looks at him. Really looks, for the first time since he entered the room. Bruce can’t fathom what he possibly _sees_ , but it must be enough to snatch his attention. There is no mocking curve in Jerome’s eternal smile nor a trace of levity in his gaze as he takes Bruce in, all of him — only sharp, unyielding focus.

It’s… captivating, in a way. Being under such scrutiny of a madman, when innocent lives depend on the outcome. Bruce can’t say he’s comfortable under the depths of the attention he’s suddenly getting — used to Jerome continuously underestimating him, both in the past and during their nightly encounters now — but he also can’t say that he _isn’t._ This is what he wanted, after all: to get Jerome off track.

But it’s slightly terrifying how much less disturbed than he probably should be Bruce feels. As if playing Russian roulette with Jerome’s moods is a completely casual occurrence that Bruce deals with on the daily. It’s not. Hopefully would never be. But well. It’s certainly an observation to dissect at a later notice — right now he has the Clown Prince of Crime at hand to deal with, still.

What a ridiculous nickname, though, really. There is nothing _‘princely’_ about Jerome. There never has.

It’s that moment Jerome chooses to snap out of this strange fixation both of them got trapped in. He leans back in his chair, undoubtedly lifting its front legs off the floor and _winks_.

And just like that, the magic is broken.

“Ya got ballsy, kid. I approve,” he says smugly and tips his hat.

 _I always was_ , Bruce doesn’t reply.

“If you let me finish my meeting, I’ll go without protest,” he offers instead, explicitly _not_ looking at the other people in the room. He might lose his nerve if he acknowledges how close to fainting and/or panic some of his board members are. “You can even stay. If you like.”

And Bruce really wouldn’t mind him to. At least, Jerome in the room is a Jerome that doesn’t go on a rampage where Bruce can’t see him. Jerome, on his part, seems to actually consider the offer for a moment. It involves tapping fingers against his scarred lips, jutting his chin and rolling his eyes skyward. And humming. For at least a full minute.

It’s enough for Bruce to almost lose his patience and say something excessive. Almost. But when Jerome finally drops his act (just a little) and meets Bruce’s eyes again, there is a thirst there that wasn’t before.

“You’d volunteer for poor ol’ Jimbo’s sake?” Jerome asks curiously. There was no mention of Gordon before, but Bruce doesn’t dig. He takes notice that Jerome’s voice rings somewhat deeper than his usual screech now, though. Interesting.

“Yes.”

“And I can do to you whatever I want?”

_Hell no._

“Yes.”

Jerome lights up and claps enthusiastically.

“Allrighty, then!” He waves his hands at Bruce, impatient, as if it’s _Bruce’s_ fault that they have a setback.

“Go on,” he urges, ”I’m getting old over here, Brucie!”

Bruce sighs. It’s probably as good as he’s going to get.

It’s only much later, when he’s zip-tied to a chair with a Maniax’s knife digging painfully into his throat and Jerome’s gleeful voice boasts on hijacked TV about getting his hands on Bruce Wayne _yet again_ , _freshly from the exile, ladies and gents!_ that Bruce starts to feel, strangely, that he’s finally home.


	2. #7: break into their home

Bruce wakes up to the sweet smell of coffee and fried batter slowly filling his bedroom, that unmistakably means Alfred is making pancakes for breakfast. It makes Bruce very nearly spring out of bed despite quite a few bruised ribs and the late night he’s had. But Alfred’s divine goods are not exactly a common occurrence since Bruce returned to Gotham and took his mission to another level, and a little indulgence gets his blood running faster than a good rooftop chase.

Alfred’s just _that_ good. There’s no shame in admitting that.

Bruce almost floats to the kitchen, carried on delicious aroma alone, not really paying much attention to the state of his attire. There is no one else in the house, and Bruce is more than certain Selina is not going to surprisingly pop up this early in the morning — she made it a point of honor as of late to _not_ stumble on Bruce directly post-patrol. To avoid catching his _crazy vibes,_ as she explained it.

Which, Bruce can’t really begrudge her.

But he should’ve maybe put on something more than just pajama bottoms and a silk dressing-gown, because what welcomes him once he steps into the kitchen is nothing of the ordinary.

There is Alfred, just like Bruce expected him to be. Only not at the stove, working his pancake magic, but tied to a chair with what looks like an entire roll of duck tape.

And there is someone else.

Someone Bruce probably should’ve expected to break in at some point but for some reason didn’t.

Jerome Valeska, the very bane of Bruce’s existence, is seating at the counter by the sink with a wet cloth pressed to his temple, chatting idly, legs in full swing. There’s a gun by his thigh and another sticking out of his pocket, and for a hot second Bruce thinks, still half-asleep, that he’s walked into the wrong fairytale.

But no.

The kitchen is in enough disarray to have witnessed at least some semblance of a fight, with flour dust spilled everywhere and pancake batter dripping from the ceiling. Alfred has a nasty gash on the back of his head that’s slowly oozing blood and looks like he took a hit from something blunt. Jerome, on pair with a soon-to-be black eye, sports a split lip and a bloody nose — no doubt Alfred’s handiwork. It all looks rather gruesome.

The thing is, though, as Bruce takes it all in, the mess and the damage and the blood, none of them look all that hostile.

Surely, being taken as Jerome’s hostage should constitute at least _some_ level of aggression and defiance — Bruce would know! — but it’s… not really the case.

What he can make out of Jerome’s blabbering has nothing to do with threatening violence — _the usual_ — and sounds a lot like retelling of culinary adventures. And Alfred’s… nodding along?

Huh.

Maybe Tetch is also lurking here somewhere and Bruce simply hasn’t spotted him yet. That would explain everything, really. It would also mean the trick’s not up until all of Jerome’s freaky minions are found and incapacitated. Well, _damn._ What a way to start the day.

Bruce makes a move to sidestep the door and flee the kitchen to go looking for other potential trespassers, but the floorboard under his slipper creaks and Jerome turns, facing him.

“Brucie!” he coos, instantly lighting up.

Wet cloth Jerome was holding to his head hits the wall with a loud splat as he throws his hands outwards in a dramatic welcome, his smile brilliant and threatening to split his face. It’s a little uncanny. And not because of the scars.

“So nice of you to finally join us!”

Yeah. _Sure._

“Jerome,” Bruce greets stiffly.

He tries to maneuver his body out of the direct hit line just in case Jerome tries to shoot him — unlikely, but still, with Jerome one can never know — and gives Alfred a little secret nod. Alfred doesn’t nod back. Yeah, there’s definitely Tetch in here somewhere. The question is: who else?

Well, that’s certainly _not_ how Bruce imagined his morning to go.

He does his best not to sigh as he steps further into the room and thinks of the possible ways to handle this mess. _One_ : he can’t go full Batman on Jerome without risking his secret to his hiding minions, but _two_ : Jerome knows first-hand that _Bruce_ can fight, too. And then there’s _three_. Bruce would be a fool to think this is a social visit in any shape or form, but he doesn’t know what Jerome actually wants from him this time. And the truth is, as bizarre as it may seem, that Jerome _did_ tone down on the killing intent the last few times he crashed loudly into Bruce’s life. Just a little.

So maybe it’s not so much of an outright threat as just yet another of the stupid games Bruce’s self-proclaimed absolute clown of a nemesis was so fond of lately.

Bruce really hopes it is.

Even if making his life miserable in new and creative ways is Jerome’s new favorite hobby — aside from turning his city upside down with madness — Bruce will take it. He will take it any day if it means less violence and less death. On either side.

“To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?” Bruce asks, looking Jerome straight in the face.

“I’m making breakfast!”

That’s not an answer. Still, it’s not like Bruce expected Jerome to actually reveal his master plan just because he _asked_. Always worth a shot, though.

“Yes, I can see that.”

If he squints, maybe. Judging by the artful splashes of batter on his suit and a smudge of flour on his brow, Bruce is sure Jerome at least _tried._ Most likely after Alfred was already down. It would’ve been hilarious, really, if Bruce weren’t so dumbfounded by the whole situation.

“Jerome.”

“Yes, precious?”

“Why are you making breakfast in _my_ kitchen?”

If it’s even possible, Jerome’s smile only gets wider as he hops off the counter and strolls to Bruce over broken eggshells and spilled oil. He doesn’t say anything until they’re at eye-level, almost nose to nose. Bruce can see the faint freckles dusting Jerome’s eyelids beneath the scars and the mischievous twinkle in his glare. It’s disconcerting a little, how used to being in his presence Bruce has become.

How standing face to face with what he often thought would be his doom lost its thrill enough to be almost familiar.

If Bruce didn't know any better, he’d think he was slowly going soft on a criminal, and that was truly unacceptable. He’s Batman. He’s not allowed to fraternize with his enemies.

Jerome obviously doesn’t care about that.

He places his arms on Bruce’s shoulders and slumps his weight on him, giggling lightly as if Bruce’s confusion is the best joke he’s heard in days. Maybe it is; deciphering what Jerome finds funny is a case for more than one psychiatric thesis and certainly not a challenge Bruce is willing (or capable) to face before coffee. So he doesn’t. He waits.

And waits.

And _waits_.

And thinks that maybe Jerome’s waiting for _him_ to ask the right question. Start the game.

“What can I help you with on this beautiful Monday morning, Jerome,” he finally tries, flatly, refusing to muster even a bit of faux cheerfulness and enthusiasm before breakfast. Which _Jerome has ruined._

Surprisingly, it does the trick.

“I’m glad you asked!” Jerome pats him on the cheek and pivots on his heel with more flair than anyone at seven-thirty in the goddamn morning should ever be allowed to possess. “It’s showtime, Brucie!”

With Jerome, it always is.

And it never lasts.

When Jerome turns to him again, he has a gun pointed straight between Bruce’s eyes and his expression is more that of a hungry predator than a mellow jester. There is a card in his other hand that he’s waving for Bruce to take, all the playful demeanor from just a second ago gone without a trace. Down to business it is.

Bruce gives in and sighs loudly, reaching for the paper.

It’s a sketched layout of a W.E. facility, one of those not exactly _official_ few that are hidden and unsealed only on Bruce’s explicit orders. Big, red X in the corner marks a spot Jerome should absolutely NOT know about, and yet. Bruce is not all that surprised.

It explains the alarms that went off seemingly unprompted in the last couple of weeks, along with slightly increased sick-leave rotation. Other than that, Jerome has been uncharacteristically _quiet_ lately, save for his signature broadcast-and-kidnapping of the week.

Which, all of those things Bruce probably should’ve put together, but didn't. Despite what Jerome likes to believe, he isn’t the only criminal Bruce has to keep an eye on. It’s all very tiresome.

“No.”

Jerome’s stern expression melts into confusion. It’s almost comical, really, how fast his demeanor can change.

“No?” he asks Bruce quizzically, as if he doesn’t understand. He should. It’s not like Bruce agrees to his crazy ploys without protest all that often.

“Absolutely not. I am not handing you access to those batteries, Jerome.” _Not unless you make me,_ goes unsaid.

Jerome blinks at him twice, visibly mystified, and Bruce genuinely hopes he won’t exercise the power to do so. Because even if the unspoken (but ironclad) rule of all their encounters says that Bruce is untouchable to anyone but Jerome himself, as long as Alfred remains hypnotized and vulnerable, Jerome _can_ , in fact, make him do a lot of things Bruce would rather avoid.

Handing over Jeremiah’s only remaining — _recreated_ — battery-bombs included.

Bruce doesn’t break eye-contact when Jerome moves to scratch at his head, his posture slightly flopping. It’s not a good sign.

“What? Naaaaah. I already stole _those_ ,” Jerome brags nonchalantly, looking at him with unnerving glee.

Called it!

But also.

_What?!_

Very suddenly Bruce feels like there’s a joke going on around here that he’s very obviously not a part of. With Jerome, it’s never a good feeling. Seriously, Bruce is too tired for all of this.

“Then what do you _want_?” he demands, very done with this ridiculous morning. Maybe if he’ll let Jerome talk, he’ll just go away. Yeah, in his dreams, maybe.

As if on cue, Jerome collects himself into his best showman persona, eyes glinting and fingers to his forehead. Bruce has seen it before; it was just as silly.

“Showtime, Brucie, I told you,” Jerome grins, all excited. “You need to see the KABOOM!”

Ah. Of course, _that’s_ what this is about. Destroying the last of Jeremiah’s legacy, how typical.

Bruce stares. And blinks.

He must look a bit owlish, even, because Jerome’s façade cracks a little at the lack of immediate response. Whatever. Bruce really wants coffee. And breakfast. He deserves some delicious carbs if he’s going to be dealing with Jerome’s version of a field day. A very, _very_ long, very tiring field day, because this is his life now, apparently.

Instead, he sighs again, miserable and longsuffering, and lets Jerome walk him out. Hopefully they’ll get to stop and grab his pants, at least. Gotham mornings can get quite chilly.

* * *

** CODA **

* * *

Earlier that morning:

 **Jerome:** *strolling in* Hiya, Jeeves! Remember me?  
 **Alfred:** *trademark Glacial Alfred Glare*  
 **Jerome:** Relax, I come in peace.

Alfred does not, in fact, relax.

…

After a fumble that Jerome surprisingly wins with only a minor dent on his dignity:

 **Jerome:** *licking raw batter off a spoon* So. Will ya teach me how to make grade-A pancakes now or what?  
 **Alfred:** *expertly concealed surprised pikachu face*


	3. #9: endorse their illegal hobbies

Batman sits by his favorite gargoyle, silently watching over the city.

It’s a slow night; no big-name criminals in sight, no gang shoot-outs happening by the docs. It’s rare that Gotham actually sleeps at night, the streets so full of turmoil and pent-up pain that not even the biting cold can usually keep it at bay.

Tonight seems different. Quiet.

Batman enjoys peace, always. In those short moments when everything just _exists_ and before something, somewhere, inevitably goes haywire, Gotham is beautiful.

Maybe it’s not the sort of beauty that gets etched into heart and memory by exquisite art made in its honor and name, nor by the lasting sensation of experiencing it for the first time with one’s own eyes. It’s not the beauty deserving of words of poets and bards to carry lovingly along wherever their worship may reach.

But it is breathtaking, in a way no other place could ever be.

Pulsating with life constantly, unabashedly. _Proudly_. Always with pride, with heads held high and straight backs of its people, Gotham swallows the dirt and the hurt and lays open and welcoming to anyone brave enough to take their stand. It’s not a gentle kind of beauty, no. It’s not a gentle kind of love.

It’s one that allures sharks and monsters like blood spilled in the water, one that hums with a constant threat of danger below the surface even when the winds are calm. Mesmerizing and magnificent. Alive, even while sleeping.

Batman could never leave this behind.

Even when he left to train, to make himself _better_ , more worthy of his goals, it was always the thought of coming back here that pushed him forward. The urge to become what Gotham needed most in its darkest hours, what it deserved.

Batman can’t be sure if he achieved that goal yet, but he sure as hell will give it his best regardless.

The night is calm in a way that doesn’t scream of oncoming storms and Batman lets himself, well, not _relax_ , never relax while on the job, but ease out a little. Let the tension go and the paranoia unclench. _Breathe_.

There is no one else on the rooftops but him.

Well.

Until there _is_.

A small figure two building over is making their way up the fire escape, the unmistakable shape of a rocket launcher strapped loosely to their back.

Batman stands up, immediately ready to take action. He profoundly ignores the faint feeling of loss over how nice this night could’ve been. And then he jumps.

Crossing the distance with his new grappling hook gun is as easy as a walk in the park on a sunny day, and it takes him mere seconds to circle the building and intercept the rooftop, unnoticed. He then hides in the shadows, waiting for the (potential) criminal to reach the top as well. It would be… unwise, to startle someone with explosives on a shaky staircase, after all.

It doesn’t take long for the person to crawl their way up, metallic rattling of rusty steps clear in the silence of the night, and soon enough a silhouette emerges from the shadows. A very familiar silhouette.

Batman curses softly under his breath as Jerome — because _of course_ it’s Jerome, at this point, why would it be _anyone else_ , really? — stumbles over the ledge. He’s muttering something to himself, or maybe over his comms, that Batman can’t hear from this distance, patting the pockets of his ridiculous suit. Bright red, even in the dim lights of the street below.

It was supposed to be a _slow_ patrol.

Batman hasn’t really seen Jerome on the streets since his last big bank robbery a few weeks prior, laying suspiciously low since he took Bruce Wayne sightseeing to detonate Jeremiah’s last remaining batteries over the remnants of his bunker. If Batman wasn’t so damn resigned about the petty war going on between the twins that apparently transcends years of absence and prison walls, he maybe, _maybe,_ would’ve appreciated the sort of sense of poetic (in)justice of it all.

As it is, he’s mostly just annoyed.

The whole _point_ of Batman raising in the deepest shadows of the night was that he could face crime on his own terms. Make villains play by _his_ rules. Only Jerome… doesn’t.

The Joker and his Maniax brood keep doing whatever they want despite the many times Batman thwarted their antics already, heedless of the body count both of their own and civilians alike. Down periods of inactivity, while a breath of fresh — literally! not-poisonous — air for the city, more often than not mean that something truly ugly is brewing behind the scenes, and Batman, however much satisfaction he takes from a job well accomplished, is beyond _done_ with such madness.

So no, seeing Jerome with a personal-use rocket launcher, giggling on a rooftop at 2 A.M. is NOT what Batman considers a fun time. It wasn’t the first god-knows-how-many times it happened before, and it sure as hell isn’t now.

The only good news is, though, that the Clown appears to be alone. Thank heavens for small mercies.

Batman stalks closer under the covers of long shadows cast by the taller buildings around them, silent and careful. One with the night. He doesn’t really focus on the pieces of tech Jerome is putting together — the barrels and the straps and the telescopes — and instead tries to work out his target before the confrontation begins.

They’re almost on the Narrows turf, no more than two blocks away, and there really, really isn’t anything around here worth blowing to pieces.

Not close enough to the nearest drug den to cause a ruckus, not close enough to the Doc’s territory to royally piss everyone off. Of course, Jerome — _Joker_ — could just plan to murder hundreds of people for fun tonight, as a treat. But there is no audience to be had at the dead of this peaceful of a night and it’s been a long time since the Maniax did anything without the promise of publicity.

Batman sighs, already knowing he won’t figure it out before the Clown enlightens him in person, and reaches for his batarangs.

It’s about time to move, anyway.

Batman charges forward, every intention to tackle Jerome flat to the ground before he has a chance to actually _do_ something flaring in his veins.

The hit lands.

They’re tumbling sideways, away from the edge and from the bazooka, enough to have some room for a fight.

And fight they do.

Jerome doesn’t pull his punches any more than he always does, all vicious zeal and obnoxious laughter. He’s not a fighter, not in a way Batman is — trained and prepared to counter every and any move — but that never stopped him from being an utter _nuisance_ before.

Batman doesn’t think tonight’s going to go any differently.

They’re rolling together over the rooftop exchanging blows, none of them willing to let the other go, aiming for maximum pain and incapacitation. At least Jerome is; his gloved hands like claws on Batman’s throat, brutal and unyielding.

“I’m gonna _kill_ _ya_ , Bats,” he sing-songs in a raspy voice straight into Batman’s ear. “I’m gonna tear ya to pieces.”

Batman knows he would. Gleefully so. But not tonight.

It takes only a moment to flip them over, to put a blade to Jerome’s neck and _push_ — just enough to make him stop. And it works exactly like Batman thought it would; only not quite. Jerome’s fingers go slack in their hold and his arms flop down Batman’s sides, but it’s a far cry from defeat yet. In fact, the look he’s sending Batman’s way is something that Batman hasn’t seen in _a very long while._

A look that suddenly sends him _years_ into the past. To the maze made of mirrors and an entirely different fight.

To a different night, when Bruce Wayne straddled Jerome’s chest and for the first time looked death so closely in the eye. To a time he held a glass shard in his grip, ripping both his skin and soul apart, and for more than one, horrifying heartbeat thought: _This ends tonight_.

It didn’t. _He_ didn't. But Bruce never forgot the way he looked death in the face and it _laughed back_.

Batman stops, just for a second, overwhelmed with memories of a time long gone, when both of them had fewer edges to cut on and the fight to the death wasn’t ultimately so. But the way Jerome looks at him from beneath the blade — cold and heavy and _intent_ — sends shivers down Batman’s spine.

It’s so similar to the look from that first time they fought and yet… unacceptably _lacking_.

Jerome from the maze looked at him like he saw something _more_ , something worth dying over, even if just for the sheer spite of shaking his childish ideals. Something worthy damaging enough that his freshly regained life wasn't too much of a price.

The Jerome underneath him now… doesn’t.

His gaze burns with a cold flame of hatred and a truly maniacal need to end Batman’s life, but there is no deeper desire there. No curiosity. And it sends Batman for a loop, this strangeness. This otherness.

Until he remembers it’s not strangeness at all.

That it’s not _Jerome_ — the vaguely threatening menace that likes to break into his house for breakfast every so often — that he’s facing right now. It’s not Jerome that served as a final push to send him on his current path, Jerome whom he shares a lot of history with, both past and — surprisingly — present.

No.

It’s the Joker on a warpath and out for his blood.

It’s the Joker who’s… laughing at him again?

Batman jumps back in an instant when the sizzling noise of a blade that _wasn’t_ in Jerome’s hand a second ago hits his ears and wild cackling begins to echo malevolently in the night.

“Itsy bitsy baby Batsy, tut-tut! Don’t run away.”

Oh, Batman certainly won’t. But he won’t indulge the Clown either.

Jerome doesn’t give him time to regroup, though. He rushes forward, his chainsaw-like blade brandishing in broad, chaotic swings.

Batman throws a tripwire at his ankles to knock him down but Jerome leaps at him over it and sure enough they’re locked in a deadly embrace once more. Only this time the threat is appallingly real.

Batman can feel the infernal blade slowly sawing through the back of his cowl and another — _there’s another?!_ — jabbing at his neck. Jerome is clinging to him like a deadly, clown-y octopus, hindering his movements and unwilling to let go with entirely petty, malicious glee.

Batman is _not_ amused.

He struggles free, of course, with the help of a few well-aimed blows, but as he finally drop-kicks Jerome off of him, Batman realizes his momentary distraction was enough. He can feel the gush on his shoulder, already oozing blood down his back and arm, and, to his abject horror, Batman realizes he can feel the cool, nightly breeze on the side of his face, too. His uncovered face. Which means…

_His cowl!_

Jerome went for his—

Batman — _Bruce_ — freezes, spotting dark remnants of his protection not a few feet away from his current position. _In Jerome’s hand_. The Clown is looking at him with wide, unblinking eyes, completely entranced by his miraculous discovery.

Bruce looks at him back, motionless, his mind going a thousand miles an hour over _‘what ifs’_ and _‘oh shits’_ of Jerome knowing who he is behind the mask.

Then Jerome jumps and the moment breaks, and they rolling on the dirty concrete like a pair of brawling teenagers yet again. Only it’s...

Different.

Bruce can tell Jerome’s bloodlust dissipated to naught in a matter of seconds that he spent on the ground, replaced by something much softer. Mellowed down.

He can feel it in the movement of his fists, blade-less and punchy, no longer aiming to tear apart; he can hear in the laughter that lost its dreadful note and in the blows, less vindictive, less _deadly_.

And even though it’s never a given with Jerome — his moods swaying faster than the lights of a disco ball — Bruce knows they’re not fighting seriously anymore. Jerome may have wanted to kill the Batman a minute ago, but Bruce is not afraid he’s going to kill _him_. That ship has sailed a long time ago and they both know it.

So Bruce lets himself be pinned. He lets the weight of another body settle over his own and feel the warmth of breath wash over his exposed skin.

He doesn’t protest when Jerome ogles the half of his unmasked face and traces the jagged line of breakage his knife left behind. It’s strangely intimate, being so close. With their faces suspended not even a foot apart, but not spitting insults at each other through their teeth. Bruce has learned to handle Jerome most of the time, but still the only times they actually end up this close by is when an argument’s involved.

It’s not like that now.

Jerome gently cups Bruce’s cheek with his gloved hand as he leans down, steeling the pressure he’s got on Bruce’s chest.

It’s unnerving, how calm he can appear when just moments before he was pure chaos incarnate. Bruce gulps audibly.

Jerome’s eyes crinkle when he leans even closer, mischievous glint shining deep within like a beacon.

“Always knew you had a soft spot there for lil ol’ me,” he says, giggle bubbling in his throat. He pats Bruce with too little sting to be anything but mockery and smirks a little too bright to be feral.

Bruce glares at him in turn. He’s not exactly sure what you say to your oldest enemy having gone soft on your civilian identity by some elaborate scheme of circumstances and then _finding out about it._ He isn’t sure if Jerome will try to stab him as retribution for Batman playing him in his own game for months — with this man everything’s possible — but not for the first time this evening is Bruce grateful for the apparent lack of guns on Jerome’s person.

Getting unmasked and mutilated by a Franken-knife is bad enough for one patrol. Gunshot wounds on top of that would surely earn him _at least_ a week’s worth of Alfred’s Eyebrows of Doom. The thought is utterly horrifying.

But Bruce knows better than to let his mind wander while still in Jerome’s direct proximity. In his _clutches_.

There is no possible scenario in which such negligence ends well. Just like now.

Before Bruce can really maneuver his way out from underneath Jerome — _again_ — his face moves to hover mere inches above Bruce’s own, and then he _bends_ , plopping a wet, sloppy kiss just above Bruce’s brow, where he cut his mask open.

It lasts just for a second, not enough for Bruce to react in any way (not that he wants to. _React_ ), before Jerome scrambles to his feet and dashes across the roof, his ridiculous, red tailcoat puffing in the wind.

“See ya ‘round, Brucie!” he chirps, giving Bruce a little, playful wave before he takes on the ledge at full speed.

As he watches Jerome’s flouncing figure disappear into the night, his sad, abandoned bazooka lying discarded on the opposite side of the roof, Bruce knows he’s in trouble.

Really, really deep trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely _despise_ writing combat. Can you tell? XD  
> Also apologies for the angst, promise we’ll be back to regularly scheduled shenanigans next time! :3


	4. #13: capture their friends

If there is one thing absolutely EVERYONE knows about Batman by now, it’s that he simply _does not_ appear during daylight hours. Never.

Ever.

Regardless of how much the GCPD Commissioner will plead, Batman is the creature of darkness; confined to its shadows just like the myth that surrounds him.

But _some criminals_ apparently never got the memo.

Bruce clenches his teeth when the news rolls about a bomb with a new, improved version of Scarecrow’s laughing gas that went off at the shopping mall, and filled the streets with helpless Gothamites laughing themselves unconscious. He’s in the middle of a business meeting meant to secure a very beneficial overseas partnership for W.E. when the first information about _‘message for Batman!’_ comes into the light.

Or, well. An _invitation_.

Big, bold letters made of smoking crates, the remnants of a freshly put out fire, spelling _‘LET’S PLAY A GAME’_ over a ginormous, spray-painted bat symbol.

Really.

Despite the lack of the Maniax Eyes anywhere near it, the whole thing has _Jerome_ written all over it, and in a particularly crass manner no less. Who else would try to engage Batman so obnoxiously, Bruce doesn’t know, and in all honesty is a little afraid to think about. And well, with Crane’s involvement it doesn’t take a genius — or a Bat — to tell that the Joker is up to something, even before the GCPD gets his demand recording.

But it’s the middle of the day and Bruce in the middle of a business meeting that he can’t just pack up and leave without rising suspicion. It’s not like he only has access to the GCPD internal feed because he’s _hacked_ _into it_ to monitor major emergency events even while he’s at work.

It’s _not_ like other people in the room have any inclination of what has happened in the Diamond District in the last thirty minutes and that the Bat’s assistance is required ASAP, regardless of the bright sun shining in the sky. Or, well. Bright for Gotham anyway.

Nope. It’s none of those things.

What it _is_ , though, is Jerome’s undoubtedly scratchy voice Bruce can’t hear on the video preview he’s sneakily watching, as he rambles about Bats and Cats and friends in need _or else_.

It’s the way he sees a single cat claw glove brandished like a duel challenge and a set of parallel, bloody scratches on Jerome’s cheek. It speaks of an encounter that certainly took place — resolution unknown — and the need for him to immediately _move it_.

Bruce is not actually _worried_ about Selina; she can take care of herself fine even in the depths of the snake-pit that surely is the Maniax headquarters. Whoever got the drop on her and dragged her into their confinement must undoubtedly already be regretting their life choices. _And_ Bruce doesn’t believe Jerome wants to piss him off at this point. Not by seriously harming his closest friend.

Setting things on fire and sowing panic on the streets is fair game, but the Joker should know better than trying to put his paws on the Cat.

No, it can’t be that.

Even if Salina were in any immediate danger — which. No. Just no — there’s also Firefly. Jerome’s right-hand woman with a fuse shorter than a stack of dynamite she adores so much, who wouldn’t even blink setting the whole base on fire if she knew they’d let anything heinous happen to Selina.

What Bruce _is_ worried about, enough to consider going full Bat on his wayward enemies like they clearly want him to, broad daylight or not, is the fact that — speaking from years of meticulously gathered personal experience — Selina has _no_ patience for the stupid.

Surrounded by a bunch of raving lunatics, possibly tied and subjected to Jerome’s annoying scheming habits? Yeah, if Batman doesn’t hurry up and _get there_ , there is gonna be blood.

So that’s what he does.

One press of the emergency panic button sends the whole floor into evacuation mode and Bruce easily slips away in the chaos that ensues.

The location of Jerome’s infamous hideout is likely the worst kept secret in the entirety of Gotham City. Not because people actively gossip about it, but because keeping a high concentration of ever rotating clown-themed people on the down-low, at all times, even in Gotham — self-absorbed, desensitized Gotham — is a huge feat.

Not to even mention that after years of criminal activity and excessive drama, people _know_ Jerome. They can sniff a clown-involved crime form a mile away and _Meeting the Joker: How to Live to Testify Another Day_ is No. 1 in every Gothamite’s unofficial survival guide.

It’s no surprise, then, that when Batman shows up on the doorstep of the not-so-abandoned factory, none of the pedestrians unlucky enough to be passing by even looks at him funny.

What is a surprise, on the other hand, is a very distinct _lack of Maniax_ in a certified Maniax Lair.

Batman did not expect his rescue mission slash thwarting of devious ploys slash flimsy excuse to hang out — because _that’s_ where they are, apparently, after their memorable tête-à-tête — to go spectacularly wrong, but the emptiness of the place does nothing to reassure him.

Jerome is nothing if not unpredictable and Batman _knows_ he should never drop his guard around the man, but there is just _something_ …

Something he can’t quite explain, compelling him to do so anyway. Something that starts to taste dangerously like trust.

Batman isn’t stupid; he knows that actually _trusting_ the Joker is a death sentence regardless of who he might be. But there is this thin thread, always at the back of his mind, pulling him to step down a little every time he encounters the Clown. Pulling him to have faith that Jerome will not aim to kill or significantly maim him or those closest to him on a whim, like he’s wont to do with all the others. Faith that the tentative — however crazy it may sound — budding maybe-not-enmity they share is not an elaborate ruse to take him down and dance on his ashes.

That he isn’t just a fool caught in the web of lies; a blind _moron_ who saw affection in deceit and interest in scrutiny.

Deep down Batman knows it’s not _likely_. That Jerome is many things but amidst all the craze and murderous reflexes he’s not that complicated. But walking down the empty halls of a place that’s notorious for brimming with insane cult members doesn’t exactly fill him with optimism.

It isn’t until he reaches the back area of the factory and hears voices echoing from one of the more hidden rooms that Batman relaxes a bit. Not that voices necessarily mean a good thing — even though they aren’t _screams_ , miraculously — but if this really _was_ a trap, surely his enemies would’ve been more careful at the very end.

_“Shut UP clown boy.”_

That. Does sound like Selina.

**Mission status: target successfully detected.**

Only… Only suddenly a terrible thought occurs to Batman as he strides towards the noise. What if the base is empty _not_ because of an impending ambush, but because _something already happened here?_

Batman cannot see any fresh scorch marks indicating the use of lethal fire-force, but that does not mean—

“I said _SHUT UP!_ ”

Yeah.

His pace speeds up.

When he finally reaches the half-open doors that seem to hold his target, Batman’s jaw very nearly, very undignifiedly almost falls open. What he sees in the room (that is more like yet another, smaller, former production hall turned into somewhat functional living space) is _nothing_ like what he expected.

There is no blood — well not any _fresh_ one — on sight, no tortures going on, and certainly no massacre that Batman half-expected.

There is, however, Jerome, cuffed to the radiator by his wrists and lounging on the floor; a tightrope, cutting the room in half on waist level; Firefly _on the tightrope_ , full gear and all, and Selina with a scornful expression on her face, posing as support.

It’s… quite the sight to behold.

“Batsy!” Jerome lights up like a Christmas tree on fire when Batman — after a well earned second of shock — makes himself known.

Radiator-side of his face is not only scratched but also bruised red now and his eye already starts to swell. Batman knows Selina’s handiwork when he sees it — that right hook is _mean_ alright — yet for some reason it makes his gut clench.

As if—

As if Batman is disturbed by it. Subconsciously. Or something.

It’s not like Batman holds any particular regard for Jerome’s wellbeing; he’s seen that face burned and bloody and torn to shreds — he even made it so on numerous occasions himself! He’s seen it entirely _ripped off_ for god’s sake. And it was never… like that, before.

Batman doesn’t have time to chew over the wicked nooks of his psyche right now, though. He can have a heart-to-heart with himself later, when he’ll have already deciphered exactly what has transpired in this lovely place. And why is he here, since clearly, the only life potentially in danger seems to be _Jerome’s_.

“What is the meaning of this?” Batman demands, straightening up and giving the room his best rendition of the Bat-glare.

Jerome beams from his corner and tries to wave his hands despite the cuffs. It doesn’t work out well.

“C’mon, Bats, we’re learning to cat-walk, obviously! Thought you might wanna join.”

Yes. Batman can see that.

Doesn’t explain much, though.

“ _You._ Are not learning anything,” Selina snarls in Jerome’s general direction but doesn’t move even an inch from Firefly’s side. Who, in turn, is looking at Batman through her goggles, head cocked to the side, and visibly assessing his presence.

Batman didn't have much to do with her since his initial appearance in the city, nor did Bruce Wayne. He knows she’s the main hit force behind the Maniax, ruthless and unforgiving, oftentimes already scarce before any authorities — himself included — show up at the scene. Privately, she’s Selina’s best friend.

Batman really doesn’t want to get in between all that. He looks to Jerome for providing more context. Which, he’s apparently more than happy to provide.

“Alllright- _y_. The ladies here are learning to cat-walk and I’m humbly providing helpful commentary.”

Well, that certainly explains _some_ things.

Like the black eye. And the scratches. And possibly even the radiator, too.

Still no clue what about this… _situation,_ begged the need for such an elaborate luring-trap. Batman would’ve come even without the mall fire to urge him.

_And isn’t that a whole entire thought to unpack._

Batman sags a little, fighting the urge to rub at his eye-lenses.

 _“Jerome,”_ he warns, arms crossed and full intimidation mode: _on._

Jerome’s smile grows wider, if that’s even possible. But it’s not him who answers.

“It’s your anniversary,” Selina says, longsuffering, and she must’ve moved when Batman was paying attention to Jerome, because her arm is now rubbing soothing circles onto Firefly’s lower back.

_What._

“Our what.”

Jerome looks vaguely hurt at his deadpan tone. Selina only sighs.

“You met today,” Firefly supplies. She must’ve decided Batman’s not a threat, after all. Good.

“I told clown boy you wouldn’t get it. ‘T was a stupid idea anyhow.”

Wait a second.

The day Batman met Jerome for the first time was the same day Jerome was murdered. Batman never paid much attention to that aspect of the evening, too overwhelmed by everything else ( _Alfred Alfred Alfred_ ) that happened to dwell on Jerome’s unfortunate fate. It wasn't until his Frankenstein-esque resurrection and the infamous night of the Black-Out that Batman considered actually meeting the Clown.

But maybe… maybe it isn’t entirely right.

And if he thinks about it, Galavan’s gala _was_ , indeed, today.

Batman sighs.

Throws a batarang across the room to free Jerome’s hands.

“Fine,” he says, holding back a smirk. “Do your worst.”

_“YYEEEEEHHAAAAAW!!”_

Turns out the Maniax didn't disappear into thin air after all. And that they’re exactly as good actors as they are criminals, which is to say: not very. But Jerome looks happy reenacting his dramatic knife throwing performance and Selina looks happy seeing Firefly in a frilly dress (still worn over her signature costume, of course), and Batman…

Batman can think of much worse ways to spend his afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who spent like an hour googling prom proposals to get a Jerome-worthy invitation idea and it didn't help? :D


	5. #21: take them out (not like THAT, silly!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerest apologies for the delay, I got abducted by aliens. ~~They say “Hi!”~~

If Bruce had any real say in it, inviting clowns and magicians as entertainment to public events in Gotham City would be strictly forbidden. Over the years so many of them turned out to be insane and/or homicidal that at this point hiring one as the main attraction for the evening is just asking for trouble.

Only people don’t seem to learn.

Countless galas and charity balls hosted by the social elite of the city had fallen prey to the crazy and to the bloodthirsty before, and yet, holding entertainers became somewhat of a point of honor among the rich in the years of Bruce’s absence, despite all the risks.

But that’s… fine. It’s not up to Bruce to think for others even when he _IS_ the one that usually ends up saving the day.

Not tonight, though.

Tonight he’s here as Bruce Wayne, the eccentric billionaire child that went off the grid for years in the heap of trauma, only to return shaking the very foundations of Gotham’s political and economic balance.

Tonight he’s here without gear at hand or Alfred in his ear, ready to survive the socialite sharks as one of their own. Bruce may not like the mingling and schmoozing very much, but he’s apt at keeping up the coldly polite charade enough to not avoid his responsibilities either. And it _is_ the annual Gotham Police Gala tonight, so his presence as not only the local billionaire, but also the Commissioner’s close friend is somewhat… non-negotiable.

So far, it’s not so bad.

Bruce spotted Selina a few times among the crowd already, without a doubt working her magic. He slipped from a few too boring conversations and danced with a few older ladies, adorned in priceless jewels like they were mere glass. He laughed and drunk champagne, and, all in all, as far as these things go, he didn't have that bad of a time at all.

And now, with his quota of mandatory social interactions fulfilled and all but finished for the night, Bruce lingers by the bar, watching the soon-to-be-entertainers prepare their stage from behind the wide gap in the curtains. The act itself is hardly a surprise to anyone present, but Bruce is not sure what exactly it is supposed to be. Mimes? Stand-up comedy? _Animal tamers?_ No idea.

Bruce tries to gauge the possibility of danger from the bits and pieces he _can_ see, but for once it’s not giving him much. Though… just because it doesn’t look like the performers are smuggling machine guns among the abundance of colorful props, doesn’t mean they _aren’t._

His train of thoughts is broken when a hand pats him lightly on the shoulder.

Bruce turns, business smile ready on his face, but it’s not yet another benefactor that greets him.

“Dance with me,” Selina demands, already dragging him towards the dance floor.

_Huh._

Bruce goes.

It’s not often that the two of them interact at those sorts of events, keeping their acquaintance just public enough to be acknowledged, but immediately dismissed by those who don’t already know exactly how close they are. It keeps things easier.

And even in those rare moments they actually _do_ interact, it’s usually Bruce who seeks out some reprieve from all the fakeness. For Selina to just go for the kill like that, something must be afoot.

As she leads him through the mass of bodies, Bruce allows his plastic expression to morph into something more familiar, more _him_ ; maybe the evening will gain some flavor after all.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, kind miss?” he asks teasingly when they finally stop and start to gracefully sway among other pairs.

Selina huffs.

“Too many loaded losers.”

“Ooh?”

“Shut up, B, I have it handled.” Well, that explains exactly _nothing_. Good thing that Bruce learned to wait her out a long time ago. He smirks, but doesn’t dig any deeper.

The music slowly takes them around the room and soon they’re passing closer to the stage and all the evening officials that are gathered there. Bruce doesn’t need his sharp detective skills to notice the way Selina flinches as the mayor’s group comes into view.

“Losers, huh,” Bruce quips but allows her to pull them away. “Should I have A Little Talk with Mr. Undersecretary about his lack of proper _manners_ again?”

He would, in a heartbeat. Exercising a bit of the Bat’s charming intimidation, even out of the cowl, would certainly make for better entertainment than whatever the hosts had planned. But the smile Selina gives him in response has less of an edge than moments before and it tells Bruce that she, indeed, has it handled.

“Playing arm candy to the biggest douche in the room is idiot-repellent enough, thank you,” she says flatly and they both have to stifle a chuckle. Nothing like the good old-fashioned trash-talk to lighten the mood.

But the evening is nearing its promised culmination and Bruce can’t help the nervous anticipation that begins to well up in his gut. He could just _leave_ , of course. Bruce Wayne isn’t exactly known to be the best at staying at all those galas he attends, even though his presence is rather spotlessly consistent.

He’s got a feeling, though.

An itch no amount of logic will scratch; on the contrary, all the Bat instincts in his head are wailing in alarm.

In a city plagued with crime, _crawling_ with villains fighting for attention like rabid animals in a grotesque zoo, what better occasion to show off power and stake a claim than a _Police Gala?_

None, that’s what.

Bruce very much wishes it was Batman, not _him_ , on the ready tonight, because that something is going to happen is just a matter of time. Unfortunately, even for the likes of him not all obligations can just be scratched off with a handful of money and a hollow smile, his presence here tonight being only one among many.

Bruce finds some semblance of comfort in the way Selina doesn’t seem much concerned, though. Her only palpable irritation the men with too grabby hands and too big mouths, and she _is_ one of the most well-informed people in the city. If something was brewing behind the scenes, she probably would’ve known. Then again, Selina’s not ever fazed by much, her steel-hardened nature enough to let her shrug most common threats like rubble dust. So maybe he _should_ be worried.

It’s only then, when they circle closer to the stage again, that Bruce gets tapped on the shoulder for the second time this evening, his thoughts about robbers and villains on the loose immediately dissipating.

It’s the second time also, that his business smile and a polite retort die on his lips when his eyes lie on his assailant.

Despite the fake beard, fake hair and thick-rimmed glasses, the face that greets him is the one that Bruce would recognize anywhere.

“Jerome,” he rasps, surprise barely concealed in his voice. Jerome grins.

“Hello, darling. Mind if I slither in?”

_No._

“Yes. Can’t you see I’m accompanying a lady?”

But Bruce can already feel Selina slipping out of his hold, all-knowing smirk plastered all over her face. _Traitor._

“Have fun,” she murmurs offhandedly and then she’s gone, melted into the crowd. It takes Jerome less than a second to fill her space, and then they’re _dancing_ in a hall full of people like it’s not a big deal at all.

Like Bruce is not twirling around with a criminal in his arms, a criminal most likely to blow this whole place up in a matter of minutes, or enslave everyone present thanks to the courtesy of his goons. Like there is nothing wrong with it at all.

But maybe…

Maybe there _isn’t_.

Bruce can’t really deny the strong pull between them that’s been building up slowly since that fight on the roofs. He can’t deny it was there _before_ , lurking at the back of his mind like a treacherous disease, set free by the moment all the secrets have peeled away, and marking the beginning of something _more_. Something dangerously real.

And now they’re here. Dancing, pressed closely together for the whole world to see.

It shouldn’t feel this right.

It does, anyway.

Bruce can feel his face doing things he didn't really approve of, more than sure his smile turned into something dopey and soft. He can see it reflected in the glass of Jerome’s specs when the light hits them just right, and mirrored right back at him under the layers of fake hairs. All of this, the music, the spinning, the sensation of skin brushing skin when they move with the rhythm makes Bruce feel almost _giddy_. And he’s more than sure it has nothing to do with the champagne he drank before.

“What are you doing here?” he asks lightly, already prepared for whatever non-answer Jerome has in store.

“Couldn’t let you get bored to death, now could I,” Jerome smirks happily. “Aaaaand cashing in on all these big bougie fishes is a nice boon, don’t you think?”

There is smugness in his voice and a playful glint in his eyes and. Well. Bruce really didn’t expect him to be so forward.

Huh. It’s a first, certainly.

Somehow, the novelty of openness stifles the heat of Bruce’s nerves and the confirmation that something nefarious is indeed going to happen tonight doesn’t spoil his mood at all. It’s _Jerome_ after all. Bruce _knows_ Jerome. Everything that could possibly go wrong isn’t going to cross on the wrong side of horrible if they are _both_ here. Bruce scoffs and bites back a smile. Yeah, _right_.

“Oh, but don’t worry, precious, I’m mostly here just for you.”

Jerome’s expression, despite his goofy disguise, manages to be downright predatory as he leans into Bruce’s space, and Bruce…

Bruce hasn’t noticed when the music turned into a tango.

“Really?” he nudges, arching a brow and forces them into a sharp turn. “And why is that?”

“You left me all to my lonesome, Bruce,” Jerome sighs wistfully. “You should know that Sad Clown is not a good look on me.”

Another sharp turn.

“But I agree.” A smile. A push. Bruce lets Jerome spin him in place before closing him in a hold from behind. Fake beard scratches his neck and cheek as Jerome leans close enough that his breath ghosts over Bruce’s ear.

“You naughty boy, you. If you wanted so badly to see me, you could’ve just called.” Jerome’s lips brush his skin as he speaks and Bruce can’t hold in a shiver. He’s not sure if it’s adrenalin pumping up his veins or something else entirely.

“True. But where is the fun in that?”

Jerome rapidly spins him over so they’re face to face again. His eyes glimmer with mischief in the chandelier lights.

“Awww baby, I like your style,” he says flatly. And then he’s laughing and Bruce is laughing and they must look utterly ridiculous to everyone around — folded into each other yet still moving swiftly with other pairs. It’s easier, too, now with the tension between them broken to pieces.

“You know I’m going to stop you, right?” Bruce murmurs over Jerome’s ear and breathes him in. It’s strange, how, by all means, he should smell of blood and destruction, but _doesn’t_. It’s a nice smell. Bruce could get used to it.

“You’re no Bat now.” Jerome nuzzles the side of his neck, glasses digging uncomfortably into Bruce’s flesh. “Pretty billionaire boys ain’t fit to fight the monsters.”

_“Jerome.”_

Bruce wants to protest; wants to say that he’s always the Bat and that billionaire boys have fought and beaten Jerome bloody before. He doesn’t. He tightens his grip on Jerome’s hand instead and pushes him into a spin. He lets the momentum carry and when their bodies are set to clash back together he dips Jerome low enough for the tips of his wig to brush the floor.

When their eyes meet, Jerome’s smile is all teeth and Bruce meets it with one of his own; sharp enough to break the playful edge. They might be… whatever they are in this moment, but Jerome does have a point and Bruce is with no backup whatsoever.

It’s… good, though. This thing they have, the closeness. Good enough that Bruce is not sure he wants it to _end_.

Of course, that’s when the big clock at the front of the hall chimes — _midnight? Can’t be midnight, this isn’t a fairytale, Bruce_ — and it must be finally time for the performance, because Jerome _moves_.

He uncoils himself from Bruce’s hold and steps forward, suddenly close enough for Bruce to count all the freckles on his brow if he only so whished. _~~He does.~~_

“Better stay in the back, darling, we wouldn’t want you getting caught,” Jerome says hastily before pressing a quick, tickling kiss to the side of Bruce’s jaw. And then he’s gone, tearing away from Bruce like a wretched Cinderella.

Bruce lets him. Watches him dash between the crowds with the surprising grace of someone used to avoiding capture, and briefly wonders if there is still time to get out of here before Jerome breaks all hell loose.

There isn’t. The Maniax are already blocking the exits in a swift manner and Jerome takes over the stage with cooing laughter, cold and maniacal, and nothing like what they’ve shared a few moments ago.

He listens to the advice, moving farther away from the scene, and when the fear gas breaks and Firefly burns the nearest tables, Bruce is very glad he did so. There isn’t much he can do in his current persona, and while the sight of pain and needless destruction makes him rage for vengeance, there is no point in making this harder on himself than it already is. He only hopes Selina got away before the madness started, but somehow, he thinks, when the Maniax start cuffing people and collecting their loot, she must’ve gotten a tip.

Bruce sighs and rubs at his eyes.

Being only one in the crowd of hostages is never much fun.

**Author's Note:**

> [you can find me on tumblr!](https://takenene.tumblr.com/)


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